


Nocturne

by MatureMead



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Angst and Tragedy, Canon Compliant, Canon Era, Gen, Remus introduces Sirius to Chopin, Short One Shot, Sirius plays the piano, Stand Alone, brace yourselves for some serious angst and literary flourishes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-16 20:36:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29581752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MatureMead/pseuds/MatureMead
Summary: Sirius never enjoyed playing the piano until Remus gifted him a copy of Chopin's Nocturnes.Chopin weaves through Sirius's life until after his death.A short one-shot embracing the magic of music.
Relationships: Sirius Black & Remus Lupin, Sirius Black/Remus Lupin
Kudos: 5





	Nocturne

**Author's Note:**

> ‘Sometimes I can only groan, and suffer, and pour out my despair at the piano’  
> -Frederich Chopin

_Hogwarts, December 1975_

A package lay on Sirius’s bed, neatly wrapped in brown paper and string.

‘It’s for you, Padfoot. For Christmas,’ Remus said.

He opened the package with fumbling fingers, tearing through the paper roughly, like nails on skin. Jagged edges, torn and thin. The contents were musty, aged, yellowing with decay.

‘Piano music? You know my parents hate muggle composers’.

‘It’s Chopin’s Nocturnes. My mother’s favourite composer, and mine. I never learnt to play, so I’m giving her copy to you, with her blessing.’

Sirius picked up the battered old book, leafing through pages of scrawled, swirling black notes that rippled across the surface of his mind. The young composer stared up at him unmovingly, dark fathomless eyes boring into him out of the portrait, coolly challenging him to breathe life into the pages, to prove himself worthy of the gift. Melodies within for him to hear, the notes reached across the centuries, whispering into his ear.

‘Thanks, Moony’.

_Grimmaud Place, December 1975_

Darkness on the face of the glossy black piano, deep and complete. Sirius sat alone, the walnut panelled wood enveloping him like a tomb, wrapping him securely in suffocating destiny. The burden of centuries. The stool was soft green velvet, the light through the glass window pale gold. The music book clasped firmly in his shaking hold. He placed the precious gift on the piano and opened the lid. It creaked in protest after centuries of neglect, belching out dust and disapproval. The silencing charm was cast, the stage was set. Sirius flexed long white fingers and placed them on the ivory keys and began to play, softly and slowly.

Glorious melancholy, exultation and grief rose from under his hands, centuries of feeling made sound, a cry of despair and divinity from the grave. Sirius closed his eyes. Delicate trills, rises and swells of melody, the ebb and flow of tidal beauty swelled around the dank musty room. The sweetness took his breath away, his head and shoulders began to sway. A pause, a crescendo, the clash of dissonant chords. Then silence.

‘Don’t stop’, said Regulus. ‘I won’t tell.’

_Potter House, July 1976_

‘It’s for you, Padfoot. Mum didn’t want you to miss out now you’re living with us.’

The piano stood by the window, basking in the warm glow of summer high, and the anticipation of pleasure in James’s eyes.

‘It’s not fancy like your one, it belonged to our neighbour Bathilda’

“It’s perfect, Prongs.’

The piano’s keys were chipped and scratched under his fingers, the weathered wood’s gloss tarnished with the years. The seat creaked, the pedals squeaked and the gold embossed letters had flaked away. As the echoes of Chopin filled the little room, he felt the richness of use, the warmth of practice elevate the melody, enhance it with the imperfections of an instrument so carelessly loved. Into this melody Sirius poured his pain and his grief and his terrible fears, and the memory of a brother he had lost. The memory of what his freedom had cost. For a moment he could hardly see, for a moment he could hardly breathe. He stopped, the silence discordant, violent and crushing. When he turned to face James, he saw a single tear tracking down his cheek.

‘I’ll let you play in peace’.

_Potter House, December 1976_

‘Come here, Moony. I want to show you something.’

Remus followed him into the little room, where the tattered old piano stood proudly in the centre, like a tarnished jewel.

‘What’s your favourite Nocturne?’ asked Sirius.

‘Number 13 in C Minor’, replied Remus at once.

Sirius sat down on the faded velvet stool and began to play. The melody began, slow, ponderous, each pause heavy, each note deliberate. Remus closed his eyes. Slowly, it began to ripple down to its softer, gentle lull, Sirius striking each note with tender delicacy. As the music swirled to its climax, each chord was struck with an intense ferocity, a shattering agony of feeling and sadness and fury. His unbearable, lonely melancholy. The music could not be contained, it must surely burst free of the walls, fill the garden with grief, settle for no less than the heavens. And then it ended.

‘I’ve never heard you play like that before,’ said Remus.

‘I never knew music like this existed before,’ replied Sirius.

_Grimmaud Place, June 1996_

‘I can’t remember how to play’.

The black piano sat between them, immoveable, obstructive, solid.

‘Of course you can. I saved the music book for you all these long years’, said Remus.

Sirius’s long hands shook as he took the book, his grip so weak and unsteady. He wasn’t ready.

‘It’s too much.’

The room was heavy with the weight of memory. Thick as the dust on the windowsill, it coated his throat, powdered his touch with agony.

‘I’ll start you off.’

Remus sat on the dull green velvet next to Sirius and picked out the opening notes of Nocturne 13. The piano protested, the melody distorted and rough. It would not yield to his unpractised touch. The blankness of Sirius’s face seemed to crack, the notes played across his ruined features; for a moment, he looked like a savage creature. He sat, and stroked the keys, and savagery became softness. Under his touch, the music blossomed out, budding out from the awakened root of youth once more. The silent house rang with memory, aching with loss.

‘Promise you’ll play for me again,’ said Remus.

‘I promise’, replied Sirius. 

_Tonks’ Residence, January 1997_

It was Chopin. He knew that melody by heart, it had followed him through decades of suffocation. It reached through the radio, through the months of hell, calling out to him from beyond the veil.

‘Turn it off, please’, he asked Tonks.

‘Why?’ she asked.

‘Because Sirius never kept his promise’.

She looked at him and did not ask him to explain. She knew he could not articulate his pain. Wordlessly, she turned the music off, snuffing out the memory like a match. He was gone. He was never coming back.

**Author's Note:**

> Nocturne 13 Op.48 in C minor is a stunning piece of music (and underrated)  
> I grew up listening to Chopin, no one does piano angst like him so it seemed fitting for Sirius.


End file.
